


As The Months Go By

by AbigailKinney4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Baby Hamish, Family, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, John and Sherlock are Parents, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailKinney4life/pseuds/AbigailKinney4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After becoming an inadvertent single father, Sherlock Holmes' life becomes a myriad of newborns, true love and decided domesticity. But danger still lurks around every corner of Sherlock's world and he quickly learns that while it is important to change and adapt to the new players in the game; it's equally important to remain true to yourself.<br/>Parent!Lock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Due Date

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, they belong to the BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and any other respective owners. I also don't own anything I reference throughout.
> 
> So I've had this little parent!lock idea on a word document for about a year or so now and I watched Sherlock again with my mum recently and had a lot of JohnLock feels so I decided to *finally* write it. There may be some trigger material, particularly in the first chapter (e.g childbirth, complications, minor character death ect) but aside from that I think this is quite a nice, neutral fic. I put it as a mature rating because of the mature subject matter of raising a child, plus some minor violence (obvs in Sherlock's kind of work) and some minor, but not especially explicit, sexytime scenes. Set after Scandal, so with S1 and S2 spoilers. Hope y'all enjoy xx

"Sherlock, why on Earth didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock sighed and continued typing on his laptop, updating a case on his website about a man who had been murdered by three garden peas.

"It didn't seem important at the time."

"IMPOR...IMPORTANT!" John stopped himself, pressing his fingers to his lips, something Sherlock realised he always did when he tried to calm himself down. Why he was so pre-occupied with Sherlock's affairs, however, he would never know.

"Sherlock," began John again, "you are having a baby."

Sherlock gave him no response and John felt the ire rise in his stomach. "You are having a baby!"

Sherlock shut his laptop with force. "John, I am not having a baby. I'm a sperm donor, nothing more, do you understand?"

"So you just thought one day you'd donate sperm?" Asked John incredulously.

"Of course not," answered Sherlock, "Maggie's a friend of mine from university. She doesn't have any other family, she wanted a child. I did her a favour."

John was shaking his head, Sherlock frowned. "What's the problem?" He asked.

John laughed humourlessly. "The problem, Sherlock, is what if this doesn't go smoothly?"

"Why wouldn't it?" Asked Sherlock, "I mean, statistically births are..."

"No," John cut him off, "I mean, what if you can't give this baby up?"

Sherlock must have missed the complete seriousness on John's face because he merely rolled his eyes. "Come on, John, be realistic. I've never felt emotionally attached to anything in my life."

John bowed his head, he knew that shouldn't hurt, he knew that there were more pressing matters at hand and on top of things he knew it was complete bullshit but just hearing Sherlock say it made it worse.

"You know what?" John asked rhetorically. "You are the cleverest man in the whole universe and at exactly the same time you are the most stupid."

Sherlock frowned but John didn't have anything more to say, he walked out of the flat, wringing his hands together, trying not to care as much as he did.

….

John sat in a cafe, nursing a hot cup of coffee, warming his cold hands. Across the table from him, Greg Lestrade was sipping his own cappuccino, staring back at John with concern.

"Sherlock is having a baby." John reiterated, more like he was talking to himself than to Lestrade.

"Well, it's not like he's actually having a baby." Lestrade added in.

John looked up at him disbelievingly. "I'm sorry, what part of having a biological baby with a woman is not having a baby?" He asked testily.

"Well, yeah okay," Lestrade conceded, taking another sip of coffee, "but still, it's not like Sherlock is settling down or anything, he's helping out a friend. Besides, everyone has babies at some point."

"Sherlock doesn't." John responded immediately. "He just...can't."

"Hey, nothing's going to change." Lestrade reminded him. "A kid isn't going to hold Sherlock back, you're both still going to be doing the same things you always did."

John shook his head. "You see, that's not the problem."

"Then what is?"

"What if Sherlock really doesn't care about this child? I mean, it's due in two weeks and he's already pretty nonchalant, he didn't even tell me about it. What if he sees his baby for the first time and he feels...nothing."

Lestrade shrugged but there was discomfort in his eyes. "Then he'll just be being Sherlock."

John rubbed his forehead. "Sometimes it scares me that Sherlock might be this heartless creature. But then what if he does fall in love with this child?"

John chuckled humourlessly.

"Sherlock's life is going to turn completely upside down and he doesn't even know it."

"You're just gonna have to be there for him when it happens."

"You really think Sherlock is going to let get anywhere near?" John asked dryly, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, you are his best friend, aren't you?" Lestrade shot back, chuckling as he took another gulp of coffee.

John shook his head before he sighed frustratedly, leaning precariously far back on his chair whilst grasping his fingers on the edge of the wooden table until his knuckles paled. The action didn't go unnoticed by the detective inspector.

"It was never meant to be this way." John finally said, humourless smile finding its way onto his grim expression.

"Sherlock and I were supposed to..." But he had no idea how he was supposed to finish that sentence.

"I know." Was all Lestrade said in response, all mirth gone from his voice. Because he did know. He did.

…

"You have to go."

"No I don't."

"Yes, Sherlock, you do."

"I don't see what you're making such a big fuss out of this, John."

It was the complete lack of emotion in Sherlock's voice that irritated him the most. He wanted to shout, dear God did he want to shout in Sherlock's face about how he needed to get his blasé arse to the hospital immediately but logically realised that all that would do was garner a negative response from the consulting detective. So, instead of shouting, he pressed his fingers to his lips for a moment, regaining composure before he started again slowly.

"Sherlock. Maggie is being induced, this is your child. You need to go, you need to support her. You said she had no one else."

Sherlock fixed John with a stare so intense that it could almost be called accusing.

"John, pray tell me why you care so much about her birthing situation."

John liked to think that he had no idea why he was getting so involved in Sherlock's affairs, and why he was pressing for Sherlock to attend the birth of his first born but the answer presented itself to him quite neatly.

"Because I know what it's like to be alone." He replied honestly.

Sherlock's face made no change but the look in his eye did, his pupils seemed to immediately dilate, the whites of his eyes glazed over as if they'd frozen or turned to glass.

"Okay." Was all Sherlock said before he closed his laptop and stood. "Statistically, the labour time scale is between four and eight hours so we shouldn't be there all..."

The relief that was coursing sweetly through John Watson immediately dissipated as he fixed Sherlock with a confused stare.

"We? You...want me to come with you?"

"Of course." Sherlock said, eyes trained on him as he wrapped a navy blue scarf around his neck. "It was your suggestion, after all."

John rolled his eyes but liked to think that Sherlock was just really subtly asking for his support at such a time.

By the time they'd reached the hospital, John's stomach was churning inside him. Although he was a specialised field medic, he'd learned about pregnancy and child birth during his training and was consciously aware of all the complications that could arise, to mother and child.

As he glanced across to Sherlock in the back seat of the cab, still ridiculously calm and collected and lost in his phone, he wondered how much birthing knowledge he had tucked away in his mind palace.

John would wager not a lot, and everything he did know would probably be purely theory. Not to mention the fact that, although John was fairly certain Sherlock had another brother aside from Mycroft, he was still the youngest of the Holmes family and had no pregnancy or baby siblings in his memory.

They were directed to the birthing suite by the receptionist and by the time they got there, there were already two nurses waiting outside.

A young male turned to them and his eyes lit up.

"Ah, which one of you is 'Dad'?" He asked brightly.

John watched Sherlock's jaw set and was waiting for him to coolly explain how he was nothing more than a sperm donor but instead he merely nodded.

"That would be me." He said slowly.

The other nurse, a middle-aged female, smiled before beckoning him forward. "Okay, if you'd like to follow me. You'll have to wait outside, I'm afraid." That last bit, however, was directed at John.

John's stomach was churning far too loudly for her words to really register so he merely nodded at her.

"Yeah, I'll be out here if you need me...Sherlock." His hand enclosed around the detective's bicep before he could be dragged away. Sherlock merely regarded him with an empty expression.

"Good luck." Was all John could say.

"I'm doing this for you, John." Sherlock said pointedly, before pulling his arm free and disappearing into the birthing suite; long coat flicking out behind him.

The fluttering that came from John's heart was almost painful and he forced himself to calm down as he looked around the now empty corridor.

He found his way to an uncomfortable plastic chair against the wall, a pile of dog-eared health magazines perched on the small coffee table beside it.

But he didn't pick up a magazine, he instead contented himself by practically shoving his entire fist into his mouth and bouncing his knees worriedly, wondering exactly what it was that Sherlock had gotten himself into.

…

The two nurses took Sherlock to the bed that Maggie was in and he was struck, almost immediately, by just how sickly she looked.

The small, almost neat swell at her stomach was covered by a floral hospital gown and her legs were splayed at an awkward, uncomfortable angle.

Her usual chestnut ringlets were sweat-dampened and rat-tailed, her pink skin was a dark red and her eyes looked sunken in and drawn out. But as she lifted her gaze to him, a smile broke out across her face.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked the female nurse before she had a chance to bustle off.

"Bacterial infection," the nurse said in a hushed voice, "she's been suffering with it for most of the pregnancy, we're worried it could develop into T.S.S."

The words 'TOXIC SHOCK SYNDROME' blared in front of Sherlock's eyes as he made the known link with dead, diseased blood and shook the mental image quickly away.

"What about a ciserian?" He asked hopefully. "Wouldn't that minimise a risk?"

"Sherlock..." Maggie said weakly.

"I'm afraid we may be too far gone now to try that, she's already beginning to dilate." And with that, the nurse shot off before he could ask anymore questions, like he was an idiot who wouldn't understand her explanations.

He fought off a frown and replaced it with a large, reassuring smile as he perched himself on the bed next to his childhood friend and slipped his hand into hers. It was cold and clammy and he wanted to retract his own immediately but he didn't.

"I was worried you weren't going to come." She said in a breathy voice.

He felt an uncharacteristic stab of guilt in his stomach, mainly from seeing her in the state she was in, but forced the guilt down.

"Of course." He said quickly. "Err...I didn't want you to be alone."

Tears were suddenly falling down her face as she grasped Sherlock's hand painfully tight. "I knew I could count on you, Sherlock." She said, smiling. "I don't know how I can ever thank you."

He shook his head gently. "You don't have to..."

She arched off the bed suddenly, grunting in pain from the sudden contraction that had swept through her straining muscles and Sherlock winced at the nails biting into the flesh of his palm before he quickly reasoned that he wasn't the one pushing a 7lb baby out of a centimetre hole.

"So, have you named him yet?" He asked quickly, in an attempt to distract her. She was breathing heavily, beads of sweat dripping from her forehead but she managed to shake her head.

"No, not yet. Wanted him to...to introduce himself..."

Sherlock nodded seriously as he eyed the pert bump at her stomach. It seemed awfully small, perhaps he would only be a tiny little thing.

Sherlock shook his head minutely as he stared. He understood the basic mechanics of parenthood, and of apparent unconditional love but now he was faced with the birth of his first born and he felt...nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He felt more care and concern for his very fragile friend, but he couldn't recall exactly why he'd agreed to such a thing in the first place.

When she'd invited him around for dinner all those months ago and breached the subject, he'd been all too quick to accept.

At the time it had seemed so...logical. It made perfect sense for her to want his sperm rather than anyone else's. He was brilliant, moderately attractive, healthy and with no genetic diseases and dispositions and he knew he would never have a romantic and familial bond with anyone for it to be a problem.

But surely it couldn't have been all logic, surely he must have helped her because he cared for her? Or was it because he had a lack of care for her? Would it be as easy for him to hand over such a thing to, say, John?

Regardless of this, he still found himself leaning into her and saying quietly, "listen, Maggie...I..." He swallowed. "If you ever need...you know...money or...you can count on me, you know that, don't you?"

She barely got out another tearful nod before she was arching off the bed again, this spasm seemed to shake her entire frame and lasted twice the length of the last one.

"Err...err...nurse!" He called out suddenly, surprisingly unsure of what to do as she let go of his hand and dug her nails into the linen beneath her, ripping it apart as if it were made of paper.

Sherlock stared, appalled, as concealed blood seeped from beneath her dressing gown and jumped immediately from the bed. Despite the fact he'd physically sniffed corpses before, he suddenly felt the urge to vomit.

Then people in scrubs were swarming around her and a pair of hands tangled in Sherlock's arms and were pulling backwards.

"What is it, what's happening?" He asked, looking around himself blindly to find the male nurse from before giving him a distressing look.

"You'll have to wait outside," he said frantically, "we don't have much time."

"Much time for what, what's happening?" Sherlock pressed.

"I'm sorry." Was all he said. "Just wait outside with your friend, we'll let you know the minute we know anything." And with that, he'd rushed back over to Maggie's bed.

Sherlock span on his heel but they'd pulled the sky blue curtain around her bed.

Despite his better judgement, he turned back and headed for the door. Her pained grunts followed him out.

…

"Queen Elizabeth II's predecessor?" John mused quietly to himself, tapping his pen against the thin paper agitatedly.

"King George VI." Came Sherlock's dull voice from his side.

John turned his head immediately, wincing at the stab of pain in his shoulder, as he watched Sherlock sink down onto the plastic chair next to his, face drawn and expression blank.

"Sh...Sherlock..." John began, throwing his crossword aside. "What happened? She couldn't have..."

"She hasn't." Sherlock interrupted, eyes still unwavering and dead ahead. "They...something is wrong."

"Like what?" John asked, feeling a pit form in his stomach.

"Toxic shock, they think." He replied.

John closed his eyes, remembering all too clearly the amputation case files he'd read on that particular issue, or worse.

"Do you know much about it?" John asked, interlocking his fingers tightly.

"A bit." Sherlock replied, inclining his head to John. "Blood poisoning, right?"

John nodded, mouth suddenly dry. "Don't worry," he attempted a shallow smile. "People recover from it all the time. Women are strong creatures."

"Are newborns?" Was all Sherlock said. It was a quiet, dejected sentence and John had no idea how to respond. He wanted to reach out, unsure whether he wanted to put an arm around him or maybe just hold his hand, but he couldn't.

All they could do was wait.

John rubbed his face with his hand for a moment before he seized his crossword from where he'd haphazardly thrown it.

"Err...okay, six down. Largest ocean in the world."

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment, and John doubted he was going to, but he eventually said "pacific."

…

John leaned against the wall, feeling decidedly weak as he covered his face with his hand.

Sherlock had been gone a long while and he was unsure if he was supposed to wait for him, but he supposed he would have done even if Sherlock had told him to go.

He checked his watch. Seven forty-five AM. He winced but dared not close his eyes, lest sleep overcome him and he collapsed onto the hospital floor.

Although pure anxiety was the only thing keeping him awake in that moment, he wondered where Sherlock was, and what they were saying to him. And what had happened to the baby.

 _Oh Christ,_ he thought to himself as his head swam.

…

Sherlock watched the saddened look in the doctor's eyes and believed it.

He himself felt too hollow and too empty for any kind of expression, let alone feeling.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes. This is an unexpected tragedy, I can understand how difficult this must be for you."

Sherlock knew that later he would claim that he'd felt detached from such human emotion but in reality, it  _was_  difficult for him.

He didn't understand what he was supposed to be feeling, or the empty pull in his stomach. He felt like he needed to sleep but knew that he wouldn't.

"Where is she?" He asked quietly.

"They've taken her body down to the morgue, to be formally identified by a family member..."

"She didn't have any family." Sherlock quickly supplied. "Orphan, between foster homes, nothing stuck..." The tragedy of what had occurred suddenly impressed upon him and he felt the tiredness in his sore eyes, he momentarily closed his lids and when he opened them he saw the doctor staring at him with a look of forlorn pity.

Sherlock was passed caring.

"Then, I'm afraid, we'll have to ask you to..."

Sherlock nodded quickly, familiar with the procedure of body identification, he'd done it enough times. To cadavers or murder victims but never before to a friend, to the mother of his...

His stomach swam and he clutched at his side, worried for a moment that bile would rise in his throat but it didn't.

He followed the doctor silently down to the morgue. Wishing, bizarrely, that they were in Barts and he could see Molly's sympathetic smile, or that John was by his side as he always was.

He couldn't even shake the thoughts off, he was so drained, he just let his mind wander where it may into far off, sleep-deprived open spaces; it was sufficient distraction from what he was about to do.

That was what it had always been about. Distraction.

Sherlock never felt fear, he couldn't recall a time in his life when he had. Of course, worry and stress in the form of fear had been a constant in his childhood, from bullies to his dysfunctional excuse for a family but real, bone-trembling fear was alien to him.

But he felt something akin to it, something in his gut close to terror as he looked down upon her and felt the same emptiness inside of him. He'd seemed to care for her so greatly in her time of need but now she looked so cold and calm, it was like the logical part of his brain was telling him she didn't require his comfort any more so he wasn't offering her any.

There were few times in his life that he worried he was genuinely messed up. He'd half-accepted within himself that he was a bad person that worked in a different way to the rest of the world but it was times like this that he worried he was a monster.

He quickly identified her and signed his name next to hers. Maggie Camplin.

Having already memorised the schematics of the building, the minute they left the morgue, Sherlock made a beeline for the reception area where he'd left John but was held back by a gentle hand on his arm. He wished people would stop touching him.

"Mr. Holmes." The doctor said gently, pulling him back ever so slightly. "The birthing suite is back this way."

"The birthing suite?" Sherlock asked, confusion finding its way into his dull voice.

The doctor, however, seemed to think he was confused about something else.

"Yes, I know. I'm afraid with all the commotion we didn't have time or staff to move your son from the suite. He's asleep in one of the incubators, but don't worry, he's absolutely fine."

The doctor's smile was supposed to be reassuring but all Sherlock felt was a cold twist inside of himself. He felt no joy at the miracle of the child's arrival, just a cold dread at the fact that it was alone in the world, just like its mother had been.

Except, of course, that it wasn't alone. In all the chaos, it had a living, breathing father.

"We want to do some more tests..." The doctor was babbling but Sherlock barely registered his words, knowing that if anything were truly wrong then they would have taken it down to intensive care and not left alone in an incubator in the birthing suite.

He suddenly felt angry at the man stood next to him and was grateful when he left his side to respond to an emergency page.

Sherlock hesitated as he reached the door he'd been stood by with John nearly ten hours ago. His fingers ghosted against the door handle and he was met with the warring feelings of wanting to run inside and run out in the other direction and never look back.

Sherlock was unused to feeling compromised and wished, fervently, that this intense and unfair night were over so things could go back to normal. He wanted, for the first time in a long time, to sleep.

Instead, he gently pulled the door open and walked slowly inside. The first thing he saw was the bed Maggie had been in and it felt like he was intruding on her sacred memory.

He glanced at the spooled-out bed covers and the sky blue curtains and felt ill, closing his eyes as he felt the image burn itself into his memory.

He inclined his head away from the sight and was greeted by the transparent, perspex incubator.

He felt all the air inside of him disappear as he looked at it. It was tiny, not unnaturally so, perhaps about six or seven pounds, but it still looked tiny. It wasn't the healthy colour of newborns in films, instead its skin was vaguely purple, its bones looked practically non-existent, like it was made of wet clay or putty.

Vulnerable. The word Sherlock was looking for was vulnerable.

He felt a tear slide down his cheek as he looked at it, at  _him,_ he mentally corrected himself. His son.

The little boy that had no one in the world but Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock pressed his fingers to his cheek as he felt more tears, coming thick and fast, and then his hand was covering his face and he was shaking.

To lose control of one's composure was one thing but to lose control of one's bodily function was something else entirely.

He watched - he couldn't look away - the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his tiny stomach as his healthy lungs filled with his first breaths.

He unconsciously took a step forward before he stilled himself, he knew he couldn't touch him even if he wanted to but he didn't want to, he didn't want to risk staining him with his fingers.

So he kept his distance, covering his eyes and breathing heavily. He'd always felt that he was something akin to godlike, but now that he actually was, he didn't feel empowered or unbeatable.

He felt weak and cold and useless, envying, almost immediately, the calm breaths of the feeble being in front of him when he could barely control his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just wanted to clarify this whole 'statistically no one dies in childbirth anymore and it's a cheesy plot device thing', my mother nearly died from TSS (toxic shock syndrome) whilst giving birth to my brother but luckily recovered after a painful week in hospital so it's more common than you think.


	2. New Born

Lestrade knew that there was only one person he could turn to with something like this. A decaying body of a middle-aged man turning up inexplicably in an empty roller-coaster ride mere days after internet rumours circulate that the ride is haunted.

He pulled his phone out and called Sherlock, taking mind to step away from Sally Donavon lest she complain about getting the 'freak' involved.

Lestrade barely took note when Sherlock's phone went straight to voicemail but did frown when John's did, as well.

He supposed the pair were in the middle of one of the bizarre cases they got through John's blog and resolved to call round on his way back to the station.

He took the stairs to 221B two at a time and halted when he walked through the doorway.

Greg Lestrade had seen many things upon entering this particular flat, up to and including a live Elephant, but the last thing, the very last thing that he was expecting to see was John and Mrs. Hudson crowded around a baby carrier perched on the kitchen table, with a very live baby nestled snugly inside.

After a moment, the dots connected and Lestrade remembered his conversation with John a few weeks ago at Sherlock being a sperm donor. He turned to the detective immediately to congratulate him but stilled when he saw Sherlock sat at his desk, fingers steepled in front of himself and a blank expression on his sharp features.

John looked grim when he caught him out of corner of his eye and Lestrade felt worry pool in his stomach.

"What is it, what's wrong?" He asked, keeping his voice low as he entered the flat, conscious of waking the sleeping newborn.

He was a cute little thing, Lestrade had to concede that. Bald and wrinkly, but in an adorable kind of way. His face was scrunched up and his small fingers were clenching and unclenching slightly as he slept.

Lestrade found himself smiling and couldn't fathom what could be wrong with such a healthy looking child.

He turned to Sherlock, searching for some sort of reply but he didn't say anything. The way his mouth was poised open suggested that he wasn't capable of saying anything, even if he had anything to say.

"The mother didn't survive," John said quietly, eyes cast downward. "There's no other family. Sherlock is the only..."

"This is ridiculous!" Sherlock said loudly, anger breaching his calm facade as he launched from his seat and crossed to the window. He concentrated on the darkened street below as he heard quiet conversation float to him from the kitchen.

"What about adoption?" John said quietly, unaware that Sherlock-s bat-like ears could hear him.

"What does Sherlock want to do?" Lestrade asked in an equally hushed tone.

"He needs to consider what is best for the baby..." Mrs. Hudson chipped in.

Sherlock turned back to them, fully intended to admonish them for their words, no matter how innocent they were, but instead, his eyes rested on the newborn swaddled carefully in the baby carrier between them.

He nearly snorted, he couldn't believe that the hospital had just given him the baby. It took months and months for perfectly eligible couples to adopt children and yet they were just handing them out. He felt like he should have been background checked or something, not just given responsibility because they shared the same genes.

He felt momentarily glad that he was merely a sociopath instead of a psychopath before he realised that that wasn't much of a substitution.

Sherlock crossed over from the window and into the kitchen, the three plotters silenced their quiet conversation as he neared. But instead of saying anything, he merely reached out, as if on autopilot, and circled his arms around the small thing.

He realised, instantly, that he couldn't merely pick the baby up. His hand instinctively slid up his body to support his head while the other cradled his spine, he felt this was definitively secure despite having no prior knowledge, as if it had come naturally to him.

He gently brought the small thing closer to his chest, careful not to wake him, and his mouth flew open in worry as he twisted in his grip before he settled happily in the secure cocoon of Sherlock's arms, fragile arm brushing delicately into his suit jacket.

Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off his peaceful face, the small opening of his mouth as he breathed.

"Sherlock," came John's voice suddenly, "have you considered if you're going to put him up for..."

"No." Sherlock's voice replied immediately without asking his brain for permission, but he hardly cared. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was supporting the baby's head and keeping him safe.

He was smiling now, he could feel it, but he couldn't seem to help it. The barest movement of the baby's delicate features brought an inexplicable joy to him that he'd never felt before. He imagined the cold, empty space in his arms before he'd picked him up and the idea of him being taken away seemed physically painful. This child was a part of him, an extension of his body and his mind and no one would understand him the way Sherlock did.

"What do you mean, no?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I would have thought that would be perfectly obvious." Sherlock replied, sending the three a sideways glance, not daring to take his eyes from the small child in his arms lest he drop him if he didn't concentrate. "I'm going to keep him."

"Sherlock, are you serious?" John said quickly, voice low.

"Perfectly." Sherlock replied immediately before taking a deep breath. "I got myself into this situation and, as always, I'll be the one who has to get myself out of it." He risked a small smile. "Besides, I love challenges."

His forehead knitted together as he returned his full attention to his son. Sherlock did indeed love challenges, he loved to solve them and then fold them away into his mind-palace until they became of use again, but even he knew that he was lying to them even if they didn't. Because this wasn't a challenge, this couldn't be easily solved or easily deleted. This meant something more.

Sherlock realised that it must have been odd that he didn't feel scared, but then nor was he particularly joyous.

He was...he was alone.

He swallowed.

"But, Sherlock, you don't know the first thing about childcare." Lestrade voiced obviously, crossing his arms with a look of concern in his eyes.

"I guess I'll just have to find out then, won't I?" Sherlock replied testily.

…

Sherlock stepped out of the flat and hailed a cab, feeling a little uneasy about leaving the baby with Mrs. Hudson despite the fact that he knew she had far more know-how than he did. But he needed to go shopping, and he was grateful that she'd accepted to look after him so diligently.

Sherlock pushed every other thought out of his mind, that came easily enough to him, he was on a mission and nothing else mattered.

He paid the cabbie before shooting into the first mothercare-type shop he was aware of, looking around himself at the unfamiliar battleground. He clasped his hands together as he spotted a rack of pocket books and walked over to it, instantly spying a small, fushia-coloured one that read "new babies: top tips."

He grabbed the book quickly off the shelf and opened it to a random page.

_Don't fail me now, literature._ He thought.

_'a small baby should have a crib until they grow big enough for a cot'._

"Right, crib not cot." Sherlock muttered to himself as he perused a myriad of flat-pack cribs, immediately realising that the book was right. They were small affairs and the baby was only a tiny little thing, so with bloody-minded determination, he picked the first one he saw. He loaded it quickly into one of the trolleys and leant against the side of it as he perused the book once again until he came to the page on buggy's.

" _Small babies need an inward-facing pram so they can see the mother at all times."_

Sherlock pulled a face at the page before he selected a buggy that was inward-facing and then he stopped.

He felt panicked as he realised that cot and buggy were the only two things he'd really thought off, he searched his mind for whatever else a baby needed and found himself coming up blank. He frowned at himself, knowing that his hamartia was that he had blank spots in his intelligence, as had been graciously pointed out by John about his lack of knowledge of the solar system, but then in his defence, he'd never assumed he'd ever be in this situation.

His attention was piqued when he strolled past an aisle with cases of baby food and a light-bulb went off in his head. Of course, babies probably ate.

He walked straight past the baby food, feeling oddly proud that he actually knew that babies started on milk, although he was at least 3% sure that he wasn't going to start lactating any time soon so he quickly found formula, grabbed a couple of bottles from the shelf and some dummy's stacked next to them.

He passed the clothes section next and spent a fair amount of time selecting different baby grows and bibs, the last thing he did was pick up a pack of disposable nappies before he walked straight to the check out, feeling pleased with himself.

As he walked to the check-out, he walked straight past the toy section without even glancing in that direction, the thought not even occurring to him.

He felt a little laden with items but when he got to one of the lines he saw that everyone else was in the same position as he was, the only difference being that they were all balancing babies of varying sizes on their arms as they screamed, Sherlock winced at the sound and was drawn back to how quiet and calm his little one seemed to be in comparison to the wailing disasters in front of him.

"New born?" The cashier said sympathetically as she scanned the milk formula.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked, having not paid attention to her.

"Is it your first?" She carried on.

"Oh, yes." He said quickly, understanding that she had ascertained from the fact he'd pretty much bought everything in the shop that he didn't have any other children.

"Aw, how sweet are you?" She said, smiling. "Doing everything so mum can relax with the baby."

Sherlock knew that she meant no harm, just a chatty consumer worker, but at the same time he managed to be dazzled by just how spectacularly ignorant people could be.

He didn't say a word in response as he handed over his debit card, feeling his stomach dipping inside of him before he left the shop.

It was an awkward taxi ride back to Baker Street with all of his purchases and he tipped the taxi driver as an inadvertent apology before lugging everything up to 221B in two trips.

Sherlock quickly stripped out of his patented coat and scarf, passing Mrs. Hudson cooing over the infant and heading straight to the kitchen.

He read the back of the formula tub and prepared it as instructed, pressing the bottle to his arm to test the heat as recommended.

He walked back into the living room, bottle still pressed to his bare wrist, and Mrs. Hudson looked up at him, a fond look in her eye.

"You look like a real dad, now." She commented.

Sherlock smiled and felt uneasy at the same time. He wasn't sure if he was a dad, he knew he was a father, that was obvious, but didn't think he'd ever feel 'dad.' It seemed unnatural.

Deciding the formula to be cool enough, Sherlock put it down on the coffee table and leant down and wrapped his hands around the baby's form. He was so small that Sherlock could fit him in his fingers, he felt dangerously powerful doing so.

The pair stared at each other with the same grey eyes for a long moment and Sherlock was struck with just how inquisitive his stare was, as if Sherlock were the one being deduced for a change. The thought was strangely satisfying.

He balanced the little thing in the crook of his arms again, making sure he was gently supporting his neck – it felt completely natural to hold him this way now.

He looked around himself and his face fell as he realised that he had no free hand to pick up the bottle he'd discarded.

He sent a distressed look in Mrs. Hudson's direction and she merely laughed at him.

"Come sit down." She said instructively, and Sherlock swivelled and slowly lowered himself down into a sitting position. He immediately realised that in a leant back seating position, he could lean the baby quite easily against his chest while he kept one hand on the back of his head.

He smiled triumphantly to himself as he reached his free hand out and picked the bottle up. It took a few attempts to get the child to latch onto the teat of the bottle but the minute he did, he began to slurp quite greedily at the milk for someone with such a tiny stomach.

Sherlock watched, contented, for a few moments, keeping the bottle steady in his hand before the baby pulled away suddenly and the formula sprayed onto his shirt.

Sherlock frowned and Mrs. Hudson was laughing again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grimaced as he felt the cool liquid seep through the fabric of his shirt and onto his skin before he eased the bottle back into the baby's mouth, he latched more easily this time until the pair had worked up a steady rhythm. After a few moments, the baby's lids began to droop and Sherlock took the bottle away, eyes wide.

"Do newborns just eat and sleep?" He asked incredulously.

"Pretty much." Mrs. Hudson replied knowingly, smirking and nudging him slightly. "He's already more sensible than you."

"Of course he is." Sherlock said immediately, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm the one without a clue. Trust me, that's a very strange thing for me to say."

"Well, you're a natural already, then."

Sherlock felt himself glow inside but was more confused by such a feeling than anything else. As he looked down at the sleeping figure of his son rested against him, he supposed that this must have been what love felt like, but it felt different to the other kinds of love he'd ever experienced.

For example, how he felt right now was nothing like the sparks of attraction he'd had for the woman, or the basic affection he held for Mycroft or how his heart lurched whenever John were nearby, because now it seemed more sort of immediate, more sort of instantly selfless and satisfying.

Less of a fantasy.

...

It took Sherlock less than twenty minutes to build the crib from the flat pack, the mechanics on the instructions were monumentally simple and he'd built the thing before his eyes before he'd even opened the box. He allowed himself a moment to wonder what everyone complained about before he stood back and admired the small, wooden device.

He reached a hand inside and pressed down on the small mattress inside, firm but not too firm, before he nodded to himself.

He crossed to the sleeping child and manoeuvred both him and his blankets to the crib as carefully as he could, settling him down nicely and tucking his soft white blanket under him.

That done, Sherlock turned and grabbed his baby book from the table, realising that it already looked worn despite the fact he'd only owned it for a few hours.

_'The home can be a dangerous place for a small baby, make sure that you 'baby-proof' your living area...'_

Sherlock looked around at the messy living room and almost felt guilty before quickly reminding himself that the book wasn't sentient and couldn't judge him.

He made quick work of clearing a space in the living room before making a mental note to pick up plug socket covers, he froze when he turned into the kitchen and saw every surface littered with Bunsen burners and microscopes and metal prongs and glass vials and beakers and a jar of human eyelids and sighed.

John closed the door quietly behind himself and risked a small smile as he saw the crib nestled neatly in the living room.

He could hear Sherlock clattering around in the kitchen and turned to speak to him before he froze. The consulting detective had his head turned away from him but John could clearly see his untamed hair and a splotch of white gunk on his purple shirt, he was unassumingly packing away his beloved science equipment.

He felt an inexplicable stab of guilt before he cleared his throat to announce himself.

"I got this for the baby." Was all he said.

Sherlock turned to see John stood before him, sad-eyed, and holding something out. Sherlock looked at the small, soft-looking, floppy brown teddy bear in John's fist and silently reached his own hand out to accept it.

He felt a wave of inadequacy as he looked down at the gift, knowing exactly why he'd never thought of it.

"Thank you." He said quietly, not taking his eyes off the bear.

John nodded, but of course Sherlock didn't see it, before he turned on his heel and made a bee-line for his bedroom. He stopped suddenly and turned back to the detective.

"You know, I can help if you ever need it."

But Sherlock didn't answer so John just walked away.

When he heard the tell-tale sound of John's bedroom door shutting, the sound seemed to jolt Sherlock out of the trance he'd fallen under.

He shook his head as if to clear it manually before he walked out of the kitchen and across to the newly constructed crib.

He wordlessly tucked the bear next to the swaddled, sleeping baby and watched as he inclined his head towards the warmth it had garnered from John's hand.

"See?" Sherlock said softly, smiling sadly down. "You already love John Watson; you're definitely a part of me."

 


	3. One Month Old

Always the light sleeper, Sherlock merely sighed when the erratic cries of a youth experiencing the next worst thing in their existence woke him for the third time that night.

He sat up immediately, reaching across his bedside table for his dressing gown, shivering as he slipped the cool silk over his bare arms before he opened his bedroom door and made his way into the living room.

He crossed immediately to the crib he'd previously erected and, one eye closed, glanced down to see his son kicking and crying, having pushed his blanket from himself with wet tear tracks down his tiny face.

"It's okay," Sherlock said quietly, closing his eyes as he reached in and gathered the wailing bundle in his arms, second nature now.

He cradled the small thing against his chest, rocking him gently back and forth as he muttered sleepy reassurances despite the fact they weren't going to be understood.

The crying didn't cease from his mere attentions so Sherlock quickly deduced that hunger pains had been the thing to wake him.

He carefully laid him back down before he made his way blindly to the kitchen, wincing in pain as he turned the light on and the glare burned his eyes. He tried, in vain, to drown out the sobbing but couldn't quite achieve it.

There was something oddly distressing in hearing your baby crying, even when you knew they weren't in pain. Something about your child made you feel like the most powerful being in the world and when you suddenly became powerless, it was hard to handle.

Sherlock juggled the bottle in his grip as he made his way back to the crib, placing the bottle on the table, picking up the baby and sinking down onto the sofa as if he'd done it a thousand times.

He sighed in relief as the infant latched onto the bottle and began suckling gently, leaving the flat in a beautiful silence.

Sherlock stroked comfortingly up and down his back as he ate, turning his face away as he yawned loudly.

John watched from the bathroom doorway, unseen by Sherlock. He titled his head as he observed the pair of them, frowning to himself.

There was something so delicate in Sherlock's manner when he was with the baby that it made John believe he'd changed into a totally different person, but then he remembered that Sherlock hadn't even named him yet, probably hadn't even thought about it, so he couldn't have changed that much.

Still, despite how crazy this entire situation was, John couldn't help but feel bizarrely proud of Sherlock, of the decisions that he'd made. He'd stuck by his son when he needed to, John supposed he couldn't be the monster he'd feared. But his life had changed completely, and John didn't know exactly where he fit in with this new life of his.

He went back to bed.

Sherlock watched, captivated, as the baby yawned, opening its small mouth as wide as it could go, and smiled to himself.

"That's a good boy, time for bed now, eh?"

He chuckled slightly as he put the bottle down and wrapped the little one back in his blanket, placing him gently down into the crib next to John's floppy teddy bear.

Sherlock smiled as he moved the bear closer to the sleeping form. He felt like perhaps he should have leant in and kissed him or something but he didn't, he just went back to bed.

…

The next morning, John showered and dressed and made his way into the living room of the flat.

The baby was sleeping soundly, propped up on his elbows with his mouth agape and his laptop open in front of him.

The newborn hadn't woken up, either.

"Sherlock..." John said gently, but the detective didn't respond.

John licked his lips, contemplating just leaving the exhausted man to sleep but the mental image of him cracking his head open on his laptop hinge halted that particular thought. Instead, he walked forward and shook Sherlock gently by the shoulder.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock jolted as he awoke, eyes fluttering open in shock and then focusing when he caught John looking at him.

"John," he said tiredly, rubbing his eyes. "Oh, I...what time is it?" He looked around himself.

"Around 9am." John said. "I've got a shift in the surgery so...listen, maybe you should go to bed."

Sherlock hummed quietly to himself, obviously finding the prospect quite enticing as he rubbed his temples, sighing and closing his laptop.

John clenched and unclenched his fingers uncomfortably as he watched him, sending one look back at the crib, eyes wandering worriedly over the uncharacteristically clean flat, before he looked back to Sherlock.

"I don't suppose there's a case."

Sherlock shook his head despite the fact it had been a declarative. "No, the book says I can't leave him alone for a second."

"That book is your bible now, right?" John chuckled, trying to interject a little humour.

"Well, it does concern a baby." Sherlock said dryly. "When will you be home?"

"Err..." John hesitated for a moment, not wanting to tell Sherlock exactly where he was going after his shift. "Late, I suppose. Why, do you need me to pick anything up?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I was just wondering." Was all he said, not looking at him.

He sounded so drained that John almost felt guilty for leaving him on his own but duty, unfortunately, called.

"Well, I'll be off then." He quickly clarified, heading to the door.

Sherlock merely nodded, albeit miserably.

John risked a small glance down at the sleeping baby before walking out of the flat, heart beating erratically in his chest.

…

John had been doing locum work at their local surgery for a few months but he'd be lying to himself if he said he enjoyed it.

He didn't hate it, and a lot of satisfaction came from being the smartest one in the room for once, but he just wasn't built for dull GP work, he required that little extra danger. He supposed that was why he cared so greatly for Sherlock Holmes. The man who had saved his life and in more ways than one.

He'd half-accepted that his feelings for Sherlock were teetering on the edge of love, or rather, he knew that he  _could_ love Sherlock so easily, if Sherlock would let him, and that was why it hurt so much to know that he'd lost him.

John knew he was being over-dramatic, Sherlock was still the same old person he used to be but he was stretched wire-thin, he had other priorities now and John didn't think he'd ever seen him be so calm.

It was the baby, he knew it was. He didn't just mean that unerring bond you have with a child but the actual, physical baby himself was so calm and quiet, so unlike any newborn John had ever encountered, he had that much of Sherlock in him to make him special.

John felt something akin to jealousy that he hadn't been the one to activate Sherlock's domestic side but they'd had a lot of fun together, running away from danger and laughing manically while they did it. That was what Sherlock needed John for. Except he no longer needed that.

John sighed as he pushed open the door for the real estate agents.

The woman behind the desk was already speaking to a young couple and John felt a stab of envy for the briefest of moments, imaging a world where his life was like that. But instead, he began perusing the advertisements for single flats in London.

He was struck immediately by just how pricey they were, and knew it would take a considerable dip into what little savings he had to be able to afford such a place. But the more he looked at the unfurnished rooms and tiny spaces, the more he became uncomfortable with the idea of leaving 221B, of leaving his home. Of leaving him.

The mental image of something terrible happening to Sherlock suddenly flashed across his mind, like Moriarty's forces kidnapping him in the middle of the night and John wouldn't be there to stop them.

He sighed and hung his head, willing the awful image to go away, Sherlock couldn't be left alone, could he? He and John had too much of a history, John couldn't just abandon him, Sherlock had come to rely on him in the time they'd known each other.

But then, of course, Sherlock didn't want his help.

…

Sherlock put the phone down with shaking hands and was momentarily mad at his body for betraying him in such a way but quickly cast it aside, there were more pressing matters at hand.

He looked up when he heard the front door shutting and then a minute later, John was jogging up the stairs. The army doctor stopped in front of him and Sherlock could immediately tell by the way that he was holding himself and pursing his lips that he felt guilty about something but didn't press it.

"Is everything okay?" John asked lightly, too lightly, as he made his way into the kitchen.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice – of course he noticed – the way John seemed to actively avoid the crib but he was unsure why.

Again, not particularly important now.

"I just got a phone call." Sherlock voiced.

"From?" John prompted, putting the kettle on. "Do you want tea?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied. "From a man named Arthur, apparently a very distant third uncle of Maggie's that they eventually got in touch with after...you know..." Sherlock's eyes hit the table as he cupped his hands under his chin.

John nodded as he brought two mugs into the living room, placing one in front Sherlock.

"Thank you." The detective replied quietly.

"Is it the funeral?" John asked after a moment when it became apparent that Sherlock wasn't going to say anymore, probably lost in his own thoughts.

Sherlock nodded mutely as he wrapped his slender fingers around the too hot cup of tea, but he looked so preoccupied that John doubted he'd noticed.

John would have assumed he'd disappeared off into his mind palace had he not been talking.

"Just a simple cremation," Sherlock finally said, shaking his head as if coming back to himself. "He wants me to come, he wants me to bring the baby."

John nodded. "And are you?"

"I suppose." Sherlock replied simply. "He..." Sherlock fell silent unexpectedly, pursing his lips.

"What?" John prompted worriedly.

"He wants him." Sherlock said quietly, eyes hitting the floor.

John was unsure how to respond, part of him wanted to suggest that it wasn't a bad idea to hand him over to a family member but that thought was halted by a stab of worry for the small infant. As strange and out of place as it was, he belonged with Sherlock. Even if it meant John didn't anymore.

"You...what do you think?" John asked.

"I don't know." Sherlock said. "I don't want...I want him to be here but I want him to be safe and to be happy at the same time."

"And what makes you think he'll be any safer and happier with a total stranger than with you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but quickly closed it again, John could see the cogs in his brain turning behind his startling grey eyes.

"Maggie would want him to be with me," Sherlock finally voiced, "just before she...she died, I told her I'd always be there and she smiled at me and...you should have seen her, she was so weak but she smiled and..." Moisture was suddenly gathering in Sherlock's eyes and before John even knew what he was doing, he was on his knees, crouched beside the detective's chair, clasping at his arm.

"Hey, don't..."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said immediately, quickly wiping away a rebellious tear with his palm. John was in both parts shocked, because he'd never seen Sherlock cry before, but also completely concerned for his best friends' well-being.

Another tear slid down Sherlock's cheek and as he wiped it furiously away, John suddenly became hyper-aware of Sherlock's situation. He'd been so conscious of his own problems and lack of self-worth that he'd completely missed that his best friend, the man who needed him the most in the world, wasn't only just going through one of the most difficult things in the world but he was also going through it alone.

John had to stay, even if it was just from a distance, he couldn't leave Sherlock alone. He didn't want to and he couldn't believe that he thought he had.

"It's okay, don't apologise." John said soothingly, rubbing a comforting hand up and down Sherlock's clothed arm. Sherlock barely regarded the touch but it was gargantuan, they never touched like this at all.

"You're right." John clarified, smiling slightly. "Maggie would want your son to be with you, you can do this, you're Sherlock Holmes, you can do anything."

Sherlock laughed through his tears and rubbed his eyes as John retook his own seat.

"I'm surprised he doesn't act up more." Sherlock voiced, voice trembling ever so slightly. "You know, because he lost his mother."

"He doesn't know he had one." John pointed out. "I know it's sad but it's true. Babies can only see twelve inches in front of themselves, you know.  _You're_ the most important thing to him, the only thing."

Sherlock nodded seriously. "He needs a parent, unfortunately it's me."

John rolled his eyes but didn't reply, he merely sipped his cooling tea.

…

Sherlock had seen many strange contraptions in his line of work and baby baths had definitely made themselves onto the list.

It was a small, white plastic affair with a padded ledge specifically designed to support the baby but Sherlock was unsure if he trusted it.

He decided to wait until he could support his own head until he employed the baby ledge and instead leant against one of the walls in the bathroom, cradling the baby against his chest as he sat on the floor.

It was fairly simple to unbutton his baby grow and slide it off his tiny body and Sherlock almost shivered, he was so small and so delicate, his bones didn't even feel real and he was quietly terrified he was going to hold him too hard and break him.

The baby squirmed against him and opened his tiny mouth, staring up at him with large, grey questioning eyes and Sherlock wished that there was some way he could convey exactly what was going on and resolved to work on communication with babies on his website when he next got the chance, especially now that he had a willing test subject.

Sherlock merely smiled down at the boy, trying to convey comfort and reassurance, and the baby opened his mouth back as if somehow understanding him already.

"Well, we know you're mine." Sherlock said, before reaching blindly across from himself until he felt his fingers enclose around the soft baby sponge, silently thanking his pink, pocket baby-book that he now treated as gospel.

He dipped the sponge into the temperate water of the baby bath and squeezed as much as he could out but still managed to soak his lap as he brought the sponge back to himself.

"Are you going to stay still for me?" Sherlock asked his son pointedly as he touched the side of the sponge gently to his head but he was, decidedly, having none of that and wriggled until he fell from Sherlock's grip. Sherlock's eyes flew open as he dropped the sponge and grabbed his son around the shoulders in one fluid motion.

He immediately let out a wail at the sudden discomfort and Sherlock was tempted to join him as he bounced him gently, bring him closer to his body.

"No, don't do that...don't cry, I'm here. I'm right here, I'm not going to drop you."

Luckily for the street, this little crying fit didn't last more than a few moments and Sherlock sighed in relief at the quiet.

He rested for a couple of seconds before it occurred to him that he had no idea where he'd tossed the sponge.

He growled frustratedly to himself under his breath, certain that there was no plausible way to bathe a small child on your own.

Sherlock sighed heavily to himself, knowing an impossible task when he saw one. He snagged a blanket from the side and wrapped it around the baby, rubbing it gently against his skin to dry him as best he could before he stood and, cradling the damp bundle in his arms, crossed to John's room.

John jolted from within when he heard a loud knock, he closed his laptop whilst wondering why Sherlock didn't just barge in like he normally did.

John opened the door and gasped quietly, what stood before him was a wet and bedraggled Sherlock, precariously supporting the blanket-clad newborn in the cocoon of his arms, one hand supporting the back of his neck while the other clutched the blanket to his spine.

"...Sherlock?" John asked, confused, watching as the baby squirmed in his arms.

"Will you help me?" Sherlock asked, eyes wide and pleading and so unlike John had ever seen them before.

John regarded the pair of them, both parts touched and weary at such a request.

He did, however, nod.

 


	4. Two Months Old

John could hear the spray from Sherlock's shower going from the living room and smiled to himself as he remembered how profusely the consulting detective had thanked him for watching the baby while he did so.

At the thought, John walked across the living room and peered down into the crib, frowning as he saw him fidgeting slightly.

Carefully, John reached in and picked him up, trying in vain to remember everything he'd ever learnt about young babies in his medical career.

He held the baby against himself, one arm against his neck and the other supporting his backside and made a face at the obvious squelching sound it made.

Against his better judgement, John took a long sniff and recoiled at the stench that seemed suddenly so potent that he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.

"Oh, come on, that's not fair." John said, looking down at his small face. His large eyes were open and staring at John in that way of his and John found himself smiling down at him, he was a cute, quiet child and John had to admit he'd been immediately taken with him the first time he'd bathed him with Sherlock.

And the baby seemed to be immediately taken with him as well, he no longer fidgeted and moaned when John held him and John couldn't help but feel oddly special at being one of the only two people in the world the baby liked.

"We need to get your father to pick out a name for you, you know." John said, raising an eyebrow as he took him over to the kitchen table, picking up a white shoulder bag as he went.

"You can't be ' the baby' forever, but Daddy can be very forgetful sometimes." John was unsure why he was babbling to an infant who couldn't understand him about Sherlock's shortcomings as he placed a baby mat onto the table and grabbed a clean nappy with a one-handed efficiently that Sherlock couldn't seem to muster yet.

"I'm glad he remembers to give you milk," John said, baby-voiced, as he lay the baby down softly on the mat and pressed a kiss to his nose.

The infant made a noise close to a laugh and it was a delightful sound, it made John so happy that he almost didn't mind the soiled nappy waiting for him. Almost.

Luckily for John, he'd changed nappies before for various cousins at different points of his life, the joy of having an extended family, and so the process came fairly naturally to him.

He made quick work of unbuttoning the baby's baby grow and disposing of the soiled nappy, pulling a face and wondering exactly how such a sweet child could produce such filth before he grabbed a clean nappy from the bag, fingers closing around a pack of baby wipes and the lip of a tub of talcum powder.

He allowed one hand to tickle gently at his stomach and the baby made the same happy squeal as before, before John gently grasped him by the ankles and lifted, quickly wiping and grimacing.

"I know it's weird." John found himself explaining despite himself as he gently lowered his legs and tossed the wet wipe into the bin. "I know, there is no normal way to do this, if there were..."

But the baby wasn't fussing as much as John expected him to, he let out little whines occasionally and kicked his delicate legs awkwardly when John tried to fashion the new nappy in place but all in all, it went off without a hitch.

"See, aren't you a good boy?" John found himself cooing as he picked the small bundle up in his arms and began to gently rock him against his chest.

He made an 'oof' noise when he picked him up, more for show than anything else, but was struck by just how big he seemed to have grown in the last month. He was still a small child, having been born at 6"3, John was fairly sure, but he'd almost doubled in weight since then. He was also beginning to develop a shock of black hair, just like his dad.

The thought made John smile and tugged on his heart simultaneously, he'd always wanted to get closer to Sherlock but he never imagined that this would be how.

But Sherlock did always surprise him, and the fact that the pair of them were now raising a very healthy baby together like one strange family certainly qualified as a surprise.

But it wasn't just Sherlock anymore now, John couldn't help but feel a stab of fondness for the small child as he watched his delicate, almost translucent lids dip as he rocked him.

Sherlock then entered from the other door, towel drying his dark locks and was greeted by the sight of John wandering around the living room, rocking the small baby in his arms.

Sherlock was almost saddened by how much more natural and just how much better John seemed to be at looking after him than he was, but he knew that he was lucky to have him.

"Hey," he said by way of a greeting as he crossed the room to the pair, throwing the towel down onto his chair.

John looked up as Sherlock approached, dressed but with damp hair that was clinging to his alabaster skin and felt his Adam's apple bob in his throat.

"Here," he said, attempting to pass the baby carefully to Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, looked shocked at being handed him until his expression unclouded like it did when he solved the puzzle on a particularly hard case.

Sherlock accepted the child readily and John watched, amazed, as he seemed to almost melt in Sherlock's grip, completely calm once again now that he was with daddy.

Sherlock crossed to the couch and slowly sank down, manoeuvring himself into a lying position, laying the baby gently down on his chest as he did so.

John rolled his eyes at the damp towel on his seat and took it to the washing basket, when he returned, he saw Sherlock lying there, with the baby nestled on his chest, playing gently with his delicate fingers, expression one of lax concentration.

John felt his own features go lax as he watched him momentarily, sinking down onto his armchair. He could feel his heart bursting open in his chest but you would never tell the monumental emotional upheaval by looking at his face.

"It's scary," John finally commented lightly, gesturing across to them. "How much he looks like you."

Sherlock didn't react and John knew that he wouldn't, instead, he licked his lips in anticipation and leant forward in his chair.

"Sherlock...have you had any ideas on what you're going to call him yet?" He asked.

"No," Sherlock said immediately, sighing exasperatedly.

John raised an eyebrow at his tone and was met with Sherlock's piercing gaze as he inclined his head to him.

"Oh, I have thought about it, if that is what you were worried about." He said, almost sarcastically, before turning his face back to his son. "I wasn't just never going to name him, but I can't think of the life of me what to call him. He's an outsider."

"No he's not." John quickly clarified. "He has a home, he has us. You just need some inspiration. Go to your mind palace, although preferably not when you're holding the baby." With that, he launched off the sofa and made his way into the kitchen.

The minute he was out of sight, Sherlock went to the second most effective mind-palace he knew of. Keeping on hand on the baby, he pulled out his phone and quickly typed in 'how to name a baby'.

He came across a sight with 'top tips on how to name your child' and entered it.

He rolled his eyes at the paragraphs of waffle of your child's name being its defining feature until he came to a list of tips.

_'your child's name should always be personal to their own specific personality traits'_

_'your child's name should always be mutually agreed on'_

'traditionally, male first names and middle names are passed down to sons'

"Sherlock Inr." He said quietly to himself, grinning. "It's kind of a middle name, definitely not 'Scott'..."

"Are you babbling to yourself?" John called from the kitchen.

"No." Sherlock replied, shaking his head at the sleeping baby on his chest. "No, not at all."

…

The next two weeks carved out a strange sort of routine for Sherlock and John, and they fell almost instantly into a pattern.

They shared the night feeds between each other, which had came about when Sherlock had practically collapsed against the door frame when he was putting his coat on, so with the pair of them getting sufficient enough sleep, as much as you could call sufficient with a young baby, they bathed him together every morning.

The mornings were quickly becoming John's favourite time of day, he didn't know about Sherlock. But there was something incredibly exhilarating in seeing the way Sherlock acted around his son, all smiles and gentle caresses, and the baby would respond to each and every one with the beginnings of a smile on his face.

John felt his love for the little infant grow more and more everyday, and he revelled in holding him in his arms while he dried him and rocking him gently until he fell asleep. He felt like...well, he felt like a parent. He supposed he was now. It was odd enough Sherlock randomly having a child but it looked like he'd randomly had one as well.

One of the tasks that had become monumentally easier now that it was the two of them were shopping trips. A baby was an expense, to say the least and John frowned every time he looked at the receipt on his way out, but then the baby would glance up at him with the eyes he'd adored even before he was born and he couldn't be mad anymore.

One odd side effect that came with the pair of them looking after the kid occurred one sunny afternoon when they were strolling together down a park pathway.

It had taken a lot of persuasion from John to make Sherlock come out and do such a mundane thing but John had quickly said that babies needed fresh air and exercise and he had sullenly agreed.

John grinned to himself as he pushed the pram along gently, glancing inside at the sleeping child and wondering exactly how much exercise he was actually getting.

Sherlock was a few paces ahead, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat and staring at the sun. John liked to think that Sherlock was enjoying being outside as much as he was.

"I think I've taken to this whole domesticity thing." Sherlock pointed out randomly, falling into step with John.

John's head boggled. Those were words he'd never expected to come from Sherlock's mouth, but before he could say anything in response, Sherlock was babbling again.

"I think what it boils down to is that I'm so irrationally worried that if I even glance at a case, something is going to happen to the baby."

John laughed despite himself. "If you did want to take a case, I don't mind watching him." He pointed out.

"Don't worry. A case wouldn't be the same without you." Sherlock admitted absentmindedl.y.

John felt his cheeks go red with an emotion that wasn't entirely embarrassment before he sobered. Remembering, with dread, something that he would rather forget.

"Moriarty is still out there." He voiced grimly.

"I know." Sherlock said solemnly, eyes visibly darkening for a moment. "We'll talk to Lestrade about it, we have to...oh."

"Isn't he just the cutest thing ever!" A woman cooed, leaning in suddenly to the pram and looking at the baby. The baby, however, seemed to enjoy the attention and merely squealed back.

Sherlock looked around the woman and saw she had a double pram of her own, but her children were reaching the year mark and definitely fighting about something without her knowledge.

"How old is he?" She asked, smiling at John.

"Oh, nearly two months, actually." John replied, sounding flustered but accommodating as ever. She smiled at Sherlock and he smiled back, simply to keep up appearances.

"Well, I suppose a cute couple deserve such a cute baby." She announced, attempting to settle her own children.

John watched Sherlock's cheeks tinge ever so slightly at such an assumption and their eyes met. They had been working seamlessly these past few weeks, like clockwork. Like a couple.

"So, what's his name?" She asked, turning away from her own kids and back to them.

Sherlock's gaze left John's and he hesitated for a moment. He searched through his extensive brain for anything to say in reply and managed, bizarrely, to conjure up the useless website he'd looked at on his phone for about five minutes a fortnight ago despite the fact he couldn't remember specifically committing it to memory or storing it away. Side effect of his memory technique, sometimes you stored things without realising. Like the time he'd hovered around John watching a nature documentary and could still correctly name the different finches on the Galapagos Islands.

But instead of finches, what instead flashed before his eyes was the fact that a baby's name needed to be tailored to its personality, mutually agreed on and traditionally a middle name.

Sherlock thought this in a mere matter of moments and the woman, and John for that matter, were still looking expectantly at him when he caught the doctor's eye and realised how utterly perfect it was.

"His name is Hamish." He said, smiling.

John's face snapped to his own but he didn't return the look, smirking to himself.

…

Sherlock looked at Hamish, lying in his baby carrier and staring inquisitively at his teddy bear. He hadn't figured out how to reach for things yet but Sherlock could tell he was intrigued. Of course he was intrigued, he was his son and he was brilliant. He was Hamish.

He smiled at how natural it sounded, how the baby that had been a constant in his life suddenly became a fixture.

He could sense John sat across the room, fiddling with his fingers and staring at him.

"John." Sherlock finally prompted when the workings of the doctor's mind became deafening.

"Are you sure?" John said immediately, voice strangely clipped as if he felt guilty.

Sherlock swivelled around and looked at him, startling John but he held his gaze anyway.

"Of course I'm sure." Sherlock said with an unblinking seriousness in his tone. "You're as much Hamish's father as I am. Probably more so."

John glowed inside and felt the smallest bit of that light leak out through the smile that spread across his face. "Thank you." Was all he could say.

Sherlock smiled lightly back before he gathered his son carefully in his arms and stood, turning to walk to the kitchen. Afternoon feed.

"Sherlock." John said suddenly, watching as the detective swivelled on his heel with Hamish securely in his arms with a new found confidence he didn't have in the first few weeks.

"Yes, John?"

"You do know that I love Hamish?"  _And you._

Sherlock merely nodded. "I know."

 


	5. Three Months Old

Sherlock peered down at the drop below him and unconsciously stepped away from the edge.

He didn't know when he'd gotten to the rooftop, or precisely why he was there, but when he turned around to find the entrance to the building he was met by a white haze.

He could see Moriarty stood in front of him, except that it wasn't really him, more of an abstract after-thought.

"Come along now, Sherlock..." Moriarty cooed in his nightmarish Irish brogue. "We don't have much time."

Sherlock attempted to surge forward but was stopped when he heard the loud, unmistakable cries of Hamish and his head whipped around.

He became aware of Moriarty's gleeful laugh and the precarious rooftop edge and he was jumping, he was falling...

Sherlock jolted suddenly, awoken by a sudden lowering of his heart-rate. He turned over and rubbed his face, breathing heavily as his eyes settled on the ceiling.

It took him a moment to realise that the abstract-Moriarty and the random rooftop had just been a dream – a nightmare – and a further minute to realise that he hadn't been dreaming about Hamish's crying.

His eyes practically rolled into the back of his head as he forced himself to sit up. The digital alarm clock on his bedside table told him it was nearing four in the morning and he groaned as he plugged one ear with his index finger, desperate to drown out Hamish's repetitive wails.

As he walked into the living room, he became suddenly anxious of the baby's well-being. He tried to convince himself that it had merely been a dream, a coagulation of thoughts and worries that surrounded his new-found parenthood but he couldn't quite quell the feeling of uneasiness the dream had left behind.

He was shocked when he walked into the living room to find John already in there, tea towel thrown over his shoulder as he burped Hamish and murmured quiet reassurances to him.

"Hey," John said softly as he watched Sherlock approach. "He's got wind."

Sherlock nodded mutely before he held his hands out. "Can I have him?" He asked quietly.

John glanced at the consulting detective, something in his tone instantly worried the doctor and he carefully passed Hamish across to him.

Sherlock took his son in his arms and ignored John's attempts to pass him the tea towel, he merely held the small child against himself, touch gentle but somehow desperate and secure at the same time. After a moment, Hamish's cries dulled and he seemed to settle, contented, against Sherlock.

The moment seemed so surreal and intimate that John felt like he was intruding on a father/son bonding moment.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock met his gaze over Hamish's shoulder and sighed.

"We need to talk to Lestrade about Moriarty."

…

"Mrs. Hudson is out." John informed Sherlock when he walked back into the flat the next day.

"What?" Sherlock asked, pausing as he shrugged into his coat. He sent a quick look at the, thankfully, sleeping baby across the room and then back to John.

"We can't...we can't leave him."

"Well, obviously." John said, crossing his arms.

"We can't take him to Scotland Yard." Sherlock pointed out.

"We're going to have to."

"But..." Sherlock sighed frustratedly as he realised that there was no other alternative. He reasoned they needed more friends before he walked across the room and leant into Hamish's crib. "If he wakes up, I'm going to kill you."

As they entered the station, Hamish's eyes opened and he began to fidget in his baby carrier. John sent a pointed look to Sherlock who glared back.

"I didn't do anything!" The consulting detective said hotly.

"Just hold him."

Sherlock frowned. "What, why? What good will that do?"

John sent him an exasperated look. "Because he won't cry if you hold him, you have a bizarre, calming influence on him."

Sherlock glanced quickly at John before he set the baby carrier down and gently plucked Hamish out of it, holding him carefully against the lapel of his charcoal coat with one hand cupping his neck.

Almost instantly, the child opened its small mouth wide in a silent yawn and stared up at Sherlock with his own grey eyes.

Sherlock stared back for a moment, taken aback by the sudden change of attitude, before he stared across at John.

"You're right," he said almost disbelievingly. "He's calm."

"I'm always right." John supplied, grasping his hands behind his back as he looked over the two of them , it was such an out-of-place scene but then it was perfect at the same time.

"Come on, Lestrade." John said, sounding suddenly flustered as he vaulted past Sherlock, the consulting detective watched him go with an arched eyebrow.

As he followed John to Lestrade's office, ignoring the stares of the deputies at the bundle in his arms, he tried to figure out exactly what had been bugging his friend for the last few weeks.

It was easy enough to deduce that something was upsetting John; the constant clench of his palms, the perspiration on his forehead, the hurriedness of his speech, what was less easy to deduce was exactly why he was feeling that way.

Sherlock knew it wasn't Hamish, it couldn't be, otherwise John wouldn't agree to help him look after him, he wouldn't treat the baby as if it were his own.

It wasn't Hamish he was being standoffish with, it was Sherlock. But he had no idea why.

The pair burst into Lestrade's office without knocking and Sherlock's mouth was already open, ready to reel off everything the detective inspector needed to know when he froze suddenly, John nearly colliding with his back.

"Sherlock, what...?" John began, veering around the detective to see Greg Lestrade sat behind his desk, staring at them and Mycroft Holmes sat in front of it. Also staring.

"Oh." Was all John said.

Mycroft's hawkish gaze narrowed in on Hamish and Sherlock found himself unconsciously holding his son a little closer to his body.

"Hello." John said slowly, glancing around the room. "Sorry, for interrupting."

"No, it's fine." Lestrade said, smiling easily. "I'm sure Mycroft doesn't have anything to say that you two can't hear. How's the baby?"

"Oh, he's doing great..."

"I was aware, of course." Mycroft said loudly, scratching his eyebrow and glancing at the floor before fixing Sherlock with a cold gaze. "A little notice might have been nice, however."

"Hamish has nothing to do with you." Sherlock replied instantly.

Mycroft sneered. "Hamish Holmes." He said, sending a sideways and somewhat accusing glance to John who instantly bristled, "tell me, dear brother, are you being overcome by sentiment?"

"I have a child, Mycroft." Sherlock supplied coldly. "Now may be the time for 'sentiment'."

"Can I say hello?" Lestrade asked brightly, getting to his feet. Sherlock made a little show of graciously handing Hamish to the detective inspector. Hamish let out a happy noise at the sudden attention he was receiving.

Now that his hands were free, Sherlock tucked them behind his back and stared coldly at his brother.

"Actually, it's probably good that you're here, Mycroft." John said quickly, feeling the tension between the two brothers bubbling in the room.

"Oh? How so?" Mycroft asked.

John sent a quick look to Sherlock who didn't react before he took a breath and said: "Moriarty."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "What, that mob-boss guy with the Vermeer painting?"

"That's the one." John said.

"Has he been in touch?" Mycroft asked evenly.

"No. But the threat was clear." Sherlock explained, voice still devoid of emotion. "He's still out there, with a criminal network, we don't know how strong. It's not safe." He glanced over to Hamish in Lestrade's arms. "Not anymore."

Mycroft suddenly stood, folding his arms. "We've been actively searching for him, of course." There was something snide in his tone. "But if you want results, Sherlock, you may have to get involved."

Mycroft's expression suddenly cleared, like storm clouds leaving the sky, he sent a quick look at his nephew before he nodded at Sherlock and left the room.

John watched him go in confusion. "Okay, that went very strangely. Not that I was expecting any less."

Sherlock didn't seemed phased by his brother's strange exit, he was too busy lost in his thoughts and looking troubled.

"Are you?" John asked.

"Am I what?" Sherlock said suddenly.

"Are you going to get involved?" John expanded. "In looking for Moriarty, I mean, you haven't taken a single case in a few months, Sherlock."

"Of course I will." Sherlock said, shaking his head suddenly as if clearing it before looking at John, the troubled look in his eye was gone. "Anything to be rid of Moriarty, it's not a game anymore."

John was taken aback by the hardness in Sherlock's steely eyes. He used to be so fascinated by Jim Moriarty, he treated it all like a dance between the two of them, he nearly got off on it but now...he just seemed afraid.

But then John supposed he wasn't bored anymore.

"Maybe you should take a case, just a little one." Lestrade pointed out as he handed Hamish back to Sherlock. "Just to get you back into the swing of things."

Sherlock sighed as he rocked Hamish gently. "I suppose." He conceded quietly.

Lestrade smiled reassuringly at the pair of them. "I'll keep an eye out." He said.

"Thanks, Greg." John said quietly, shaking Lestrade's hand.

"It's probably about time for Hamish's afternoon feed." Sherlock muttered, eyes oddly glazed and John nodded as he checked his watch.

"Yeah, it is."

"It's all fun and games." Lestrade observed with a grin on his face. "Good to see you two are treading water rather than drowning in it, though." He pointed out.

John smiled but Sherlock was already out of the door in that obnoxious way of his.

John caught up to him outside of Lestrade's office.

"Sherlock, is Mycroft...?"

"You're holding him wrong."

Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned on his heel to see Sally Donavon leant against her desk, staring icily at him.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked, sounding strangely exasperated. John closed his eyes, knowing this little game Sherlock and Sally played with each other but she really could pick her moments.

"You're holding him wrong," Sally said again, moving away from her desk and holding her hands out. "Look, give him to me..."

"No!" Sherlock said, loud enough to shock John who stared at the detective as he held Hamish a little closer, and quite correctly, to his body.

"What's wrong with you?" Sally asked quizzically.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not going to let you send the hate you give me my sons way."

Sally's eyes narrowed and she looked around herself. "I dunno what they were thinking, letting a psycho like you raise a child."

"Okay, that's enough!" Came Lestrade's voice suddenly as he stepped out of his office.

"He might have stood a chance any other way but now, he's gonna end up just like you."

Sherlock seemed to freeze as he stared at her and had John not known him any better he may have questioned it, or tried to talk to him, but because he did, all he did was ease an arm around the consulting detective's shoulders and gently turn him in the other direction, taking Hamish gently out of his arms as he did so.

…

John stared as Sherlock sat on the couch, hands steepled in front of him and steely eyes trained unerringly on the baby sleeping soundly in the baby carrier in front of him.

He'd been like this ever since they'd gotten back to the flat, whilst John was used to Sherlock being silent for days on end, he hadn't behaved that way once since Hamish had arrived. He'd changed.

But John knew what was wrong, it was what Sally had said. He'd probably never admit it but what she'd said had deeply distressed him.

That was the problem with Sally, she wasn't particularly rude or abusive, merely blunt. And there happened to be elements of truth in what she said. But what Sherlock failed to see was that she didn't know the entire story, she only saw Sherlock when he was in intensive detecting mode, she never saw him laughing or joking, she never saw the delicate and gentle way he was around Hamish. Just as Sherlock never really appreciated that side of himself. But John did.

He placed a mug of tea on the coffee table and sat in his armchair; Sherlock didn't move.

John didn't expect him to say a word so reached for the remote.

"I'm sorry I over-reacted." Sherlock said blankly.

John's hand hovered in the air for a moment before he retracted it and stared at the detective, who was still pointedly looking at Hamish.

"It's okay," John assured him with a smile, "Moriarty threw you off, Mycroft threw you off. What he said would have made me shout at anyone."

"She's right, though, isn't she?" Sherlock said with a sigh, finally moving his arms and sitting back slightly.

John frowned. "She's not right, Sherlock, she's just trying to push your buttons."

Sherlock shook his head and looked at John, his eyes seemed so young in that moment that it took John by surprise. "I don't want Hamish to end up like me," he said, "I don't want him to live my life. Who would want that for their kid?"

"Hamish will have his own life," John reminded him, trying to sound comforting when his heart was breaking in two. "If he likes some of things that you like, then that'll be okay. The best thing we can do is not make his decisions for him."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and dejectedly said: "I'm a rubbish dad. Maybe they shouldn't have let me take him, I'm just a psycho."

John shook his head immediately. "You're a great dad." He said unblinkingly, fixing him with an inescapable pointed stare. "You know I'd never lie to you, you know all my tells. When you're with Hamish, you become a whole different person, I've seen it. You'd never let anyone harm him. And he loves you, so much, more than me because you're his father."

"You're still his parent," Sherlock said immediately, sudden fire in his voice. "As much as me, more so, in fact. You're better than me at this, I'm useless. He deserves better."

"He's our son." John reminded him. "Despite social barriers, he's ours. If we love him, then the rest will look after itself."

Sherlock met John's eyes and John smiled reassuringly at him. "It's okay to be scared, I know it's a foreign concept for you but it's natural. I feel it all the time."

Sherlock sighed once before he nodded. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding much more like his normal self. "Mycroft really threw me. Because he's right, too, I am changing."

"You're adapting." John pointed out. "You don't have much of a choice."

"I couldn't do it without you," Sherlock said quickly, causing John to freeze.

Sherlock shouldn't have been allowed to say things like that to him without agenda, without consequence. Because John had to smile and thank him and then turn the TV on and pretend like everything he wanted wasn't across the room from him but he couldn't touch it.

 


End file.
